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Month March 2013

My Fisher family line is quite short, and begins long, long ago. But I will post it anyway, in the hopes that someone can connect.

The first Fisher closest to me is Patience Fisher, born 1761, in Walpole, Massachusetts. You know you’re dealing with ancient history when your first relative of the line was born before the Revolutionary War!

Patience married Elijah Jones in 1781, Wrentham, Massachusetts, and died in 1836, Minot, Androscoggin County, Maine.

Patience’s parents were Isaac Fisher and Hepsibah Adams. Isaac was born in 1732, Wrentham, Massachusetts, and Hepsibah was born in 1738, Wrentham, Massachusetts. They married in 1755, Wrentham, Massachusetts. Isaac died in 1808, Wrentham, Massachusetts. Hepsibah (gotta love these great names!) died in 1830, but I don’t know where.

Isaac’s parents were Isaac Fisher and Esther Mann. Isaac was born in 1694, Dedham, Massachusetts, and Esther was born in 1696, Wrentham, Massachusetts. They married in 1719, Wrentham, and died in Wrentham, Isaac in 1770, Esther in 1778.

I am hopeful that I may find out more about these folks when I head to Massachusetts this summer. Just to stand in the town where they lived and breathed will be exciting enough, but local historical/genealogical items may be available, too.

Which would be super cool.

Elijah Jones and Isaac Fisher, Jr. were both patriots recognized by the Daughters of the American Revolution, which may mean some information relating to them and/or their families can still be found. While doing research on the site Fold3.com, I discovered that Patience applied for Elijah’s Revolutionary War pension, as his surviving widow, but she ran into a snag. Apparently, her first application was denied. Which means a heap more evidence was required before the government would approve the pension. Lucky for me, this was quite a process, which means not only did Patience receive her due pension, but generations later, I got to read all the surviving data on Elijah Jones, where he served, with whom he served, etc.

But there was an unexpected bonus. Accompanying the second application was a rather sarcastic letter written in protest of harassing this widow any further, and in the hopes this application would be accepted (it was). Maybe only history geeks would notice this, but I noticed the signature was “H. Hamlin.” And remembered that the application was filed in Maine. And recalled that one Hannibal Hamlin was once a senator in Maine. You remember Hannibal…Abraham Lincoln’s first term vice-president? Yep, that’s the one. And yes, it was in fact the very same Senator Hamlin. With a signature on MY ancestor’s application.

Due to our tardy departure, we ended up meeting our neighbors in the camp site next to us, who we surely would have missed had we left on time. These neighbors were a couple from Illinois, traveling with their granddaughter in much the same loop we were traveling, only while we were driving clockwise, they were going in the opposite direction. This is significant because they were able to tell us of an incredible opportunity: about a half day’s drive in the direction we were going was a campground. A campground we absolutely would not have seen, because our intentions were to get up early that morning, pack up, and drive to Sevilla. Instead, they told us to drive the short distance to Tarifa, a town also on the coast. Tarifa is well-known for being one of the world’s best places to windsurf. While we were there, we did see a great deal of windsurfing by surfers from all over the world. This was cool. But even better was the geographic location.

Because Tarifa juts out a bit from the southern mainland of Spain, we were directly across the water from Morocco. As in within eyesight of Tangiers. Our new-found Illinoisan friends also informed us that for $40 apiece, we could take the ferry from the terminal next to the campground, join a tour of Tangiers, and take the ferry back, all in one day.

We did this…and had one of the best experiences of our entire trip.

the short sail across the beautiful blue Mediterranean.

the leisurely stroll through the Casbah, seeing the pottery, the Waterman (who sold water from his goat-stomach bag — we declined), and yards and yards and yards of stunning, gorgeous rugs that the shop proprietors begged us to walk on, as our shoes would crush the fibers and age the rugs that much faster.

the walk through the older section where we saw an honest-to-God snake charmer!

the lunch at the Moroccan restaurant, where we had a great meal, serenaded by a group of musicians who played straight through without breaks and belly dancers.

a hop on a camel

pictures with Haji, our local Moroccan guide

It was a whirlwind day, but one we will never forget. Most sobering is the thought that if we had NOT been robbed…we would have missed out on the experience of a lifetime. Oh, did I mention this trip was just the western countries of Europe? We weren’t even going into Eastern Europe, let alone Africa! A true treasure, obtained under the strangest of circumstances.

We were told in retrospect that we had been hit by “good” thieves, so termed because they did not take more than they would have reasonably wanted, they did not do more damage than they needed to, and most importantly, once the car key was in their possession, they neither took it with them, nor stole the car itself, wrecking it as they left.

But at the moment, all we could do was numbly stare at the piles of our belongings they had ransacked, and then dumped on the ground next to the car.

Finally, we started looking to see what they had taken, and the results were both scary and comical. They had removed my suitcase (contents: clothing only); Travel Buddy’s travel backpack, holding mostly toiletries; Travel Buddy’s travel pouch holding passport, ATM card, and driver’s license; a pamphlet translating simple phrases from English to Italian and back again; and, our corkscrew.

On casually checking around our site, Travel Buddy spotted the travel pouch, which mysteriously, yet thankfully, still had the passport. I ventured on the other side of the hedge from our tent site, and discovered that while there was a fence with a padlocked gate on that side, the gate had been pulled open wide enough for a person to squeeze through. Squeezing through the opening myself, I immediately found my suitcase. Nothing was taken. Seeing my success, Travel Buddy duplicated my efforts and found the travel backpack some distance away on the other side of the fence. We called the bank and stopped the ATM card, and as we were both carrying International driver’s licenses, the US one wasn’t needed until our return home. But sadly, our corkscrew was never found. Sigh.

Anyway, the best part was yet to come. Our original plan had been to wake up early and take off as soon as the front gate was unlocked. Instead, we were there much longer than intended due to us posting a police report with the local authorities.

In 1998, when traveling through Spain, we were robbed. Turned out to be the best thing that happened the whole time we were there.

But, please. Let me explain.

The days before our plundering occurred were both idyllic and nightmarish.

Idyllic, in that we had spent time sightseeing around the country, and then found the perfect campground on the Spanish Riviera, right on the ocean, with a beautiful beach, palm trees, and even a cabana that served drinks and food! Absolute paradise.

Nightmarish, in that we had partaken of the incredible homemade sangria a little too liberally, and then committed the horrific offense the next day of falling asleep in the shade of the palm trees. Horrific, in that in the span of our somewhat lengthy nap time, while neither the palm trees nor ourselves moved in the slightest, the sun, to our great misfortune, did move, thus thrusting us into the mercilessness of its hot summer rays. We were both quite badly burned, twice over: once, sangria; secondly, sunshine.

Pair that with driving all day the next day and into the night trying to find a place to stay, only to finally find a rather decent campground behind fences and gate, where they apparently lock you in for the night, and leave you until morning, and you will perhaps understand why we simply set up the tent and fell fast asleep until morning.

The following morning I was shaken awake by Travel Buddy, insisting we had been hit. As we were not only parked, but in a tent it took me sometime to understand that we had not been hit by another vehicle, but in fact by thieves.

Thieves who slit the tent open in three places: twice by each of our heads, and once at our feet. Thieves who after having thus retrieved our car key, proceeded to open the hatchback and crawl through the car, removing whatever seemed interesting at the time.

If you’re going to be traveling any length of time (from an overnight stay to several months) the subject of packing is going to figure very strongly in your details.

Just as there are multiple traveling personalities out there, many different packing strategies exist as well. But these generally boil down into three categories: people who take practically nothing, people who take practically everything, and some specifically personal variation in between.

As much travel as we have done, we have come to realize a few very important points: the less luggage you take, the less you have to drag around with you through the airport and elsewhere; unless camping in the Out Back, at some point you will come across a laundry or a sink, either scenario potentially resulting in clean clothing; if you do not bring an item with you and discover the fact after you arrive, there is a strong likelihood you can get one in a town near you or easily do without it, whatever it is; and a decent map will save you much in headaches and heartaches.

I usually pull all the clothing I think I will want, and then take half.

Two lightweight duffels versus one large suitcase: less weight; more flexibility of space; easier to distribute (carry one in each hand); and you have more control over bringing more or less stuff home with you.

Bring a small notebook and pen along if you’re going to be gone for a time. You can then make notes of the places you’ve been (super helpful when trying to remember all the details of a trip taken years ago); jot down the details of the pictures you’ve taken (often faster than tagging the pictures themselves, if you have many); write in the hotel where you’re staying (useful for return taxi trips or just backtracking); and also keep track of contacts you meet, recipes you learn, or additional tips and tricks you come up with yourself, or pick up from fellow travelers. No batteries or cell signal needed.

One more point: wherever you go, whatever you do, remember someone back home would love a postcard.